Frenchman
by Old English Game
Summary: It's never safe to hang out in dark alleys surrounded by the enemy, especially when you're five feet tall and a foreigner besides. For the 2019 SSSW Challenge... only a little bit late. T for some language.


**I'm pretty sure it's well past June 29 in all time zones by now, but oh well. I hope you like it!**

**-Caroline**

LeBeau hit the ground with a hard grunt, but was back on his feet quickly, even if he swayed a little. He found himself swinging a fist at the boy, which, while not only a dumb idea in itself, was also a very bad throw.

The boy caught his fist and delivered another, much better one straight to LeBeau's nose, inciting a gasp of pain, and then he was flying backwards into someone else's knee. The air tasted like alcohol.

He pushed himself up again, wielding his fists, glaring daggers, biting back the curses that welled up in his throat - he couldn't draw any more attention to himself than he already had, he needed to get back. It wouldn't do any good to draw a crowd to the fight with the Afrika Korps battle plans in his coat.

"Come on, _Franzmann, _can't you fight?" The boy sneered.

"If you can, I'd be surprised," Another voice from behind him said. How many were there? Three? Four? "Considering we took France so easy."

"We'll get her back, _boche," _LeBeau bit out darkly, hiding his alarm at the blood that sprayed from his nose. _Don't pass out, Louis, or you'll mever hear the end of it. _His conscience was snarky and Cockney-accented.

"Not with men like you, you won't." Suddenly someone had tackled him, and as he hit the concrete of the alley again sparks shot up his head, stunning him, "What are you, three feet? We'll have to get you a custom coffin."

"That would mean I would have to die first. Which I have no intention of doing," LeBeau started to push himself up, only for a foot to plant itself solidly against his back and push down, "Hey!" Another foot ground into his wrist and he bit his lip, determined not to show how bad it hurt.

He wasn't sure what the next insults were, he'd never learned that kind of German for their masquerades, but, suddenly, it didn't matter, because something hard and painful drove into his ribs.

He wanted to leap up, but the boot was still grinding his wrist into the ground, so the best he could do was kick up at the perpetrators - until one of them pinned his legs down, too.

And there wasn't much Louis LeBeau could do after that.

* * *

"He might've gotten started talking to a girl or something," Carter offered meekly, "He's French, you know."

"Really?" Newkirk bit out dryly, "I hadn't noticed. He shoulda been back here by now, anyways, it's been four hours since he was due!" He spun on his heel and sent a withering glare at the barracks door, "If those stupid generals weren't here…" Burkhalter's extravagant party was the only reason Newkirk - and the others, for that matter - weren't combing the countryside for their friend. They couldn't have any more men out than they needed.

"Someone would have called Klink if they had found LeBeau," Kinch said, although that wasn't really a solid fact, "So whatever's happened, we know he hasn't been picked up by the Gestapo."

"But something must have happened by now," Newkirk growled, turning around again to pace back across the room. Even in the cramped quarters, the prisoners who were in his path of destruction had wisely stepped back and let the Englishman have rein.

Nobody even tried to deny it anymore. Four hours… it took less than a second to pull a trigger.

Just then, the door opened, startling everyone (nobody was asleep, Newkirk's pacing was about shaking the building apart), and Hogan strode in, "Boy," He mumbled, "I thought that party was never going to end."

"Is it finally breaking up?" Newkirk sighed, relieved, "Then we can go out and look for Louis."

Hogan glanced up, alarmed, "He's not back yet?"

A unanimous shake of the head, "It's four hours since he was supposed to be back, Colonel," Newkirk said, "The only good thing is that the Gestapo hasn't called Klink to gloat yet."

"Alright," Hogan peeked back out the door, "The last of them ought to be gone in the next half-hour. Be ready to move out by then."

"We're ready to move out right now," Newkirk frowned.

"Give it a couple more minutes," Hogan insisted, "If one of those drunkards finds out we're gone there's no telling what they might do."

Newkirk just grunted.

He was just shy of throwing military etiquette (and logic) to the wind when the tunnel slid open and Baker surfaced, "He's back, Colonel, he's hurt."

"Shit!" Newkirk was the first to reach LeBeau, who was standing down by the radio, hands tightly gripping the edge of the table and head ducked, "Louis!" He grabbed his friend, just remembering to be gentle, and turned him to face him, "Louis."

"_Pierre," _LeBeau murmured, and sank forward into Newkirk's arms.

Newkirk supported him easily, the Frenchman hardly coming to his shoulder, and quickly eased him to the cot to the side of the radio room, "Oh, you're a bloody mess, Louis. Literally, too," He quickly glanced him up and down, not entirely sure what to do, "What the 'ell 'appened?"

"Ran into a bunch of Hitler Youth," LeBeau frowned, "Really big Hitler Youth."

Newkirk growled, "Bastards. All right, what all'd they do to you? Let me see your wrist."

LeBeau let him take it gingerly, and roll up the sleeve of his uniform to reveal the ugly purple and green bruising.

Newkirk stared at it, "Gosh, Louis, I'm a terrible doctor," He murmured.

LeBeau huffed softly, "Heck, who'd believe that, even in wartime?"

"Carter's already gone for Wilson, guys. Your ribs hurt, LeBeau?" Kinch stepped forward, and he and Newkirk carefully helped him peel off his coat and shirt, "Ouch."

"That's what I said."

"Alright. We got ice or something cold?" Kinch asked.

"Yeah," Newkirk took off and Hogan, who had been standing by the ladder with his arms wrapped around himself, watched him go, and then looked back at LeBeau.

"What happened?" He asked.

"I got the papers," LeBeau said, "They're in my coat. On my way out of the hotel - I took the back alley, and a whole bunch of Hitler Youth boys were back there. I bumped into one and said sorry -," He flung up his good hand and winced, "In French."

Kinch frowned, "Okay."

Hogan sighed, "You don't think any of them would report a Frenchman wandering the alleys?"

"_Non_. The Germans transport a lot of the French to Germany to work," LeBeau said darkly, "Plus they were drunk. They've probably forgotten it already."

"Good," Hogan nodded, "We can't have anyone getting suspicious, especially right after the Afrika Korps plans disappear." He fell quiet as Carter reentered the room, with Wilson right on his heels.

The medic stopped short and raised an eyebrow, "Been hanging around with the wrong crowd?"

"Lately," LeBeau grumbled, as Wilson sat down.

"Alright," He said as he finished splinting LeBeau's wrist, "I don't think your ribs are broken, just cracked, so _no -," _His gaze turned to Colonel Hogan, "Hard work until I say so. Actually, no light work, either, come to think of it. And he's going to need a lot of ice for all the bruising. I'll bring over some cold compresses," He looked at LeBeau, "Needless to say, you're going to be a bit sore for a while."

"Lovely end to a lovely day," LeBeau snarked.

"Good to see you're so optimistic," Wilson rolled his eyes and stood up, "Wake him up every few hours, he's got a mild concussion. Call me if anything happens - particularly nasty headache or stomachache or whatnot," He slid his bag over his shoulder, "But I think you ought to be fine. Sir," He saluted Colonel Hogan, nodded to the others, and took his leave.

"Alright, Louis," Kinch helped his friend stand up, "You're going to bed."

"We all are," Hogan glanced at his watch, "It's getting late. Come on," He put a careful hand on LeBeau's shoulder as he started up the ladder.

Just as the four of them reappeared topside, Newkirk entered with a cap full of ice.

"We should put this in a bag fast," He said, "It's melting."

"Here," Baker strode towards the storage lockers, "Haven't we got any ice bags?"

"Bottom left," LeBeau murmured from where Kinch and Carter were easing him onto Carter's bunk, "Under the flour."

"Alright, Mom," Baker sighed.

When Wilson had brought the cold compresses, and LeBeau was bundled up and tucked in to Newkirk's satisfaction, he asked tiredly, "_Pierre,_ might I go to sleep now?"

"You sure you got everything, mate?"

"Everything except a good night's sleep, _Anglais_."

Newkirk nodded, "Alright, mate, good night."

"Good night, sleep tight, don't let the bed bugs bite!" Carter said cheerily.

LeBeau sighed, "Bed bugs," And his eyes drifted shut.

Newkirk sighed, and stood up, and reached for the coffee pot, only to find it empty, "Oh," He said, "I'll make some."

"No, you won't," Colonel Hogan said, "You're going to sleep, and besides your coffee tastes terrible. I'll wake LeBeau up in a couple hours and wake one of you to spell me."

"Guv -,"

"That's an order, Newkirk," Hogan smiled wryly, "Get some sleep. All of you."

Nobody was particularly reluctant to finally get some sleep, and soon enough Hogan found himself standing in a mostly quiet room - a few men snored and Carter talked in his sleep sometimes, so a few soft sounds came from all angles of the room.

Hogan leaned back against the stove - there had been nothing but glowing embers for the last few hours, leaving the metal warm to the touch, spreading warmth through his jacket.

He scanned over the bunks, mentally ticking off each one in his head - Foster, Cohen, Addison… he had everyone.

He nodded approvingly, and tilted his head back to rest against the stovepipe. He had his men. This was good.

**Author's Note:**

**The Germans had French citizens (mostly men) transported to the occupied territories for labor.**


End file.
